


down to just one thing

by Nokomis



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hate-Flirting, M/M, ed is so in denial about his feelings, set during 3x19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 08:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11249793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nokomis/pseuds/Nokomis
Summary: Edward and Oswald make their escape plan. Set during 3x19.





	down to just one thing

**Author's Note:**

> For Rainpuddle13, for everything. <3 title from ‘Something I Can Never Have” because Nygma.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://nokomiss.tumblr.com/)

Oswald was not dead.

After being haunted by his spectre, it was almost insulting to see tangible proof that it had, in fact, all been in Ed’s own head, and that the feeling that absolutely was not guilt that had been gnawing at him had been entirely unwarranted.

Because Oswald was not dead and even worse, he was practically in arm’s reach in the adjoining cage.

Ed glared at him, as if he could transmit his frustration through his gaze and have it infect Oswald, who was being annoyingly chipper about the entire situation. Oswald seemed to be almost enjoying himself now that a truce had been established, were it not for the bars and threat of death that hung over them.

“The plan will work,” Ed said, because he seemed to be incapable of allowing the silence between them, which had fallen shortly after they’d agreed to their escape plan, to stand.

“Especially if you don’t talk about it,” Oswald agreed. He smiled at Ed. Smiled!

Ed’s glare turned into a glower. “You could have told me, you know.”

“Told you what?” Oswald’s faux innocence could use some work, Ed thought. 

“About being alive,” Ed gritted out. “I--” He cut himself off abruptly. There was no need for Oswald to know how heavily his death had weighed on him. That was personal and Oswald did not deserve to know personal things about Ed.

“What fun would that have been?” Oswald asked. “Honestly, Ed, we both know I’m the wronged party here. I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss.”

“You killed--”

“Yes, yes, that drab librarian you convinced yourself you loved.” Oswald interrupted, and Ed’s vision went momentarily red. “And you killed me, who personally I am more invested in.”

Ed would not lunge at the bars. He would not. They were in the midst of a truce, and he wanted to get the hell out of this cell so he could kill Oswald again. Instead he just said, quiet and heartfelt, “You deserved it.”

“You deserve a lot of things, too, and I am going to enjoy giving you them,” Oswald replied. 

The shiver down Ed’s back was fear. Ed was sure of it. “I can’t wait to see you try.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Ed,” Oswald said. He was moving closer and closer to the bars that separated them, and if Ed just took another few steps… if he just reached…

Oswald tutted at him. “Remember the rules, Edward.”

Ed jerked his hand back to his side, and said, “The Riddler.”

“Edward,” Oswald sing-songed. “You know I’m not going to call you that.”

Ed found that he missed Oswald’s barely contained rage from earlier; that had been entirely less annoying. He decided the magnanimous thing to do would be to change the subject before he said something regretful. “What do you think we’ll have for dinner tonight?” 

“If we’re lucky, arsenic,” Oswald said. He sat down on the floor, leaning against the bars and loosely draping his arms around his raised knees. His Court of Owls-issued jumpsuit bunched in a way that looked uncomfortable, and Ed focused elsewhere.

“The plan depends on--” Ed started, but trailed off at the force of Oswald’s glare. “It does,” he muttered indistinctly.

Oswald put his head on his laced wrists. He was obviously venting to himself, and Ed knew him well enough to leave him be for a few moments. He spent the time measuring the boundaries of his cell -- cage, really, but thinking of it as a cell afforded him a little more dignity -- and finally sat against the opposite side of his own cell, mirroring Oswald’s stance.

“We need a weapon,” Oswald said finally. “Do you--”

“My lockpick is gone,” Ed said, because the loss of it, painstakingly crafted over his first hours of isolated imprisonment, still stung. “Maybe there’ll be forks with dinner.”

Dinner, when it arrived, was something purporting to be oatmeal but with the color and consistency of Arkham gruel. There were no forks, though Ed pocketed his spoon after managing to eat enough to sustain clear thinking for a few more hours.

The guards turned off the lights, leaving the room in darkness after the dinner trays had been taken away. They did not notice the missing spoon; Ed was a little disappointed at how easy it had been. In Arkham they counted every utensil; these guards were clearly amateur. 

That did bode well for the escape plan. A more jaded guard would let the prisoners murder each other; these guards might actually try to save them.

“Penguin?” Ed whispered, some time after the lights had gone out. The sharpened spoon was tucked into his pocket, and he had settled down to attempt sleep, impossible a task as that might be given that Oswald was mere feet away.

“Yes, Eddie?” Oswald’s voice was sickly-sweet. It was dark enough to make out his silhouette, curled up in his own cell, but Ed closed his eyes and it made Oswald seem closer. 

“Are you--” Ed cut himself off, reconsidered, and started again. “You will be the victim, of course.”

“Of course?” Oswald let out a half-laugh. “Of course, Ed, I mean. That’s the game we played last time, right? You with the gun, me with the being dumped in the fucking river?”

Edward traced the ridge of the spoon-shank in his pocket before he said, “It would just be simpler. I mean. Logistically. For me to hold you.”

The words hung in the air. Ed wanted to pull them back, to take them away, but anything he added to that would just show Oswald where his thoughts had lead him. He stayed silent instead, listening to Oswald’s ragged breath. 

“I am shorter,” Oswald said finally. 

“It’s agreed then,” Ed said. He’d meant to sound businesslike, to channel the Ed he had been when he’d worked for the GPD, but instead he just sounded soft and fragile. He clenched his jaw, determined to not speak again in the darkness. It was harder, somehow, to hold onto his rage when he couldn’t see Oswald glaring back at him, but instead could just hear the softness of Oswald’s breath.

“Tomorrow, we break out,” Oswald said. 

Ed nodded, but kept his mouth closed. Silence fell, and eventually Ed must have fallen asleep.

When he woke, breakfast was sitting just inside his cell and Oswald was perched on the other side of the bars, staring at him.

A hundred cutting remarks flew through Ed’s head, but he didn’t quite have the will to throw any of them at Oswald. It seemed needlessly cruel and breaking the spirit of the truce. Still, he had been far more polite when Oswald had been unconscious. He had studiously read the newspaper and had barely stared at Oswald at all.

“Ed, good, you’re awake,” Oswald said in that irritatingly breathless way of his, and Ed grimaced at him. Oswald continued on as if Edward were a willing participant in the conversation. “I think you should cut my throat.”

“We have a no-murder deal on the table,” Ed said somewhat groggily before remembering the plan.

Oswald waved off Ed’s comment. “Escalating the violence will ensure that the guards actually open the doors.”

The guards hadn’t opened the cages since Oswald had foiled Ed’s first escape attempt. 

“We were already going to do a stabbing.”

“But cutting a throat has so much more panache,” Oswald pointed out. 

Edward agreed, but agreeing with Oswald felt strange and uncomfortable. Arguing felt pointless, so he said nothing at all. 

The morning felt like an eternity. Ed had been trapped here for days already, but somehow time seemed to slow to a crawl when Oswald was there, making Ed hyper-aware of every breath, every movement, everything. He couldn’t even properly focus on reading the paper because Oswald was there, existing. Probably plotting his murder.

Ed should be plotting Oswald’s. Something flashier, this time. The harbor had clearly not worked as well as he thought it would, given the… emotions that had followed it. This time it needed to be something public. A declaration to one and all that Ed would not allow Isabella to go unavenged.

A declaration that Oswald meant nothing to him.

He smiled as the guards delivered dinner, complete with cherry-red jello. It was time to get away from Oswald, to use his six hours to figure out the perfect plot.

It was almost too easy to wrap his arms around Oswald and hold the shank to his throat. It felt natural, feeling Oswald’s pulse quicken. He tightened his grip on the weapon and whispered, “Showtime,” into Oswald’s ear.

He hadn’t felt so invigorated since the last time he’d held Oswald’s life in his hands.


End file.
